Page 50 of Dark King Daddy

Daniil looked at me.

“They want everyone else to think it too,” he answered.

Anton took out his phone. “We go to Beard Street.”

“I’ll meet you there,” Daniil said. “Arkady, secure the scene. Nikita, pull traffic cameras from Hamilton Avenue and every approach. I want the municipal truck identified before we arrive.”

Nikita nodded.

Arkady was already moving.

Daniil looked toward his father’s grave once.

Only once.

Then he turned his back on it and walked toward the cars.

We entered Orlov Marine still dressed for Lev Sokolov’s funeral.

Black coats. Black suits. Damp shoes.

Grief followed us into the operations room and was told to wait outside.

The upper floor at 91 Beard Street had once held warehouse offices. Papa had converted the largest room into a secure operations center years ago. No windows. Two long tables. Wall monitors. Maps of the waterfront, trucking routes, storage yards, and port approaches.

By the time Anton, Uncle Kostya, and I arrived, the first footage waited on the central screen.

Daniil came in eight minutes later with Nikita. Arkady remained at the scene.

A paused image filled the screen.

Hamilton Avenue beneath the overpass. Grey concrete. Midday traffic. The joint convoy entering from the left side of the frame.

Two trucks. Lead escort vehicle. Rear escort.

A white municipal utility truck waited near the curb.

“Play it,” Anton said.

The footage moved.

The municipal truck pulled out sharply, blocking both lanes. The escort braked. The first cargo truck struck the rear corner of the municipal vehicle and jackknifed halfway across the road.

A dark van stopped behind the convoy.

Its doors opened.

Masked men came out firing.

There was no audio, but my body supplied it.

Gunshots.

Glass breaking.

Men shouting.

The lead Orlov escort opened his door and returned fire. He made it two steps.